


My heart is a ghost town

by Shtrigga



Category: The Book Thief - Markus Zusak, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Death being Death, Drama, Gen, Mysticism, keep watching over durin's sons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-06
Updated: 2015-11-06
Packaged: 2018-04-30 08:40:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5157329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shtrigga/pseuds/Shtrigga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Battle of five Armies through the eyes of Death</p>
            </blockquote>





	My heart is a ghost town

My heart is a ghost town. A passage of grey souls scattered over the spirals of time. I’ve always been here, always am and always will be. And so will the ones who won’t leave me without job. 

Sometimes it’s hard to make your way through these piles of webby memories and stay positive. But I got used to it already. I learnt to abstract and find satisfaction in little things. What’s the good of fretting over brevity of human life when I’m imminent in any case? 

****

*** * * A SAD FACT * * ***

**I will come for you.**

**I always do.**

Be not afraid. I’m not threatening. I’m stating the obvious. After all, no one has ever fooled the Death itself.

Apart from the elves, obviously.

These pointy-eared comrades like to play with me, a game of survival, but that doesn’t bother me at all. There are plenty of fish in the sea that deserve to be caught in the silvery net of my clutching fingers. 

But on that day elves made a mistake.

On that day at the base of the Misty Mountains the scent of death soaked the air, drenched cotton clouds and was crumbling down on the fallen warriors in the form of snowflakes. A spectacular view. A horrible picture. It’s been a while since the dwellers of Middle-Earth have made me work that hard. 

I’ve never understood this blind, smothering craving for self-destruction. The years glide past, the centuries crawl along, but war still remains their favorite pastime. And it’s not like they do it for something that matters. A patch of land. A handful of supplies. A pinch of power. Or a simple rage. But the result is always the same: crimson extremities on the frigid ground, trampled personalities and erased hopes.

They don’t want to make my job easier. They just don’t. 

Some of you might ask: why is he complaining? Isn’t it the whole point of being Death – taking the departed? 

It is. But try to step into my shoes for a week – it’ll drive you insane. My own saving grace is distraction. 

And what can Death possibly be distracted by except for his mirror image? 

Life. 

Those who were left behind. Those who survived. Those who lived. Sometimes this sight is more heartbreaking than those who’s come with me. I shouldn’t be looking at their hearts, mauled, broken by loss. Their souls are the bloody pulp of anguish and grief. But sometimes I can’t turn away. I allow myself to watch. And some souls are overwhelming. 

Which brings me to the reason why that day I was standing on the battlefield, grabbing desperate, crippled lumps that used to be alive. I patted them, tried to straighten, but my thoughts were moving in a different direction entirely. My eyes were fixed on a small shadow dancing between sweeps of sharp steel and screams of agony. 

****

*** * * ONE MORE FACT * * ***

**Magic doesn’t work on me.**

Nobody was hidden yet from my watchful eye. Let alone nothing postponed the inevitable. Although the golden trinket on hobbit’s little finger intended to throw down this challenge. But the day will come, and I’ll take him anyway. He’ll get his share of attention.

Maybe you wonder already why the hobbit was so important to me? 

Like I said before, there’s nothing shameful in watching the living sometimes. Just glancing indifferently, passing by. But with him I’ve made a rookie mistake. I got interested. Hook, sinker, strike – my attention is a quivering fish dangling from the line. And later came other fishermen. 

There were thirteen of them. That’s when I realized I’d stay around. 

I often recollect this story, walking through the worn-out pages of ancientry, through the yellow leaves of a notebook, old as time. The origins of the Red Book. 

«There and back again» by Bilbo Baggins.

And believe me, there’s only a handful of stories I carry, and each of them is exceptional. Each one an attempt - an immense leap of an attempt - to prove to me that you, and your human existence, are worth it. 

So, how have I met Bilbo? Nothing complicated. Since his hairy foot had crossed the borders of Shire, his fate and that of his companions was on the brink of Me. 

I first met him when sweaty, dwarven hides were getting ready to turn into a dinner for trolls. Stupidly, I stayed to watch. And then I couldn’t turn my back. 

I stood a little behind when the Company of Oakenshield was being chased by a warg pack across the arid slice of the field. 

I was with them, wiping the pellets of rain off my hood, when the stone-giants had decided to raise some hell. 

The quiet swish of my cloak announced a poisoned arrow that hit the younger prince. 

And while my fingers were pulling out hot, burned souls of Esgaroth, I kept watching. 

I’m going to confess, their brave gang has become sort of an eyesore for me. A savvy, not timid hobbit. And boisterous dwarves. Especially those three. A furry mountain of prowess and pride represented by Thorin Oakenshield. Lion’s mane of pale gold – Fili. His brother Kili – his eyes are drops of rum. 

They fought, they battled – they were taking part in a stunningly dangerous dance with Death. With me. But they wouldn’t allow me to step too close. 

I wonder if they knew that I started to root for them. That I wished them all the luck in the world and the latest possible encounter with me. 

****

*** * * A NOTICE * * ***

**Unfortunately, not all my wishes come true.**

That’s why _that_ day was etched in my memory.

The day when I saw Bilbo Baggins for the last time. The day when I got deadly close to three dwarves. And the hobbit lost them.

***

Dragon sickness.

Not contagious. Not fatal. _Not today._

While fierce baritone was just about to tumble across, announcing the war, I was already rolling up my sleeves. Soon it will be hot in here with the ringing swarm of bodies killed before their time. They think they’re going to fight each other. Instead they will fight to make an appointment with me. 

Everyone’s gathered here today because of one particular dwarf. Someone wished to acquire gold, someone – their lost gems. And only I came to work. 

Thousands of glittering eyes were piercing a distant face, hidden with beard and crown. 

I knew your father, Thorin. I knew your grand-father. They died because of the greed. Too bad you took after them. Too bad you will pay for your mistakes not only with your own life. 

He wasn’t standing alone but in company of other twelve dwarves. My hobbit was fidgeting beside him. The whole team is back together. No wonder they got into trouble again. 

I shook my head. Sons of Durin, as of late I’m bumping into you too often. Would it be too much to ask you to tame your ardour? I believe it would. Because today I’m taking the last bunch with me.

But before that there were… 

The battlefield of recklessness. White sores of snow. Scattering of blood drops. 

Orcs. Pale, repulsive bodies. In reality – much more coward souls.

Elves. The gold of armor and austere strings of hair. A single organism of smooth movements. It’s strange that, when dying, these immortal, supreme creatures don’t regret. 

People. With those I'm familiar. 

And dwarves rushing boldly past me. Carried away, the passion in their blood. They came here not to die but to have fun, and their souls were blinking in surprise as I sat next to them. 

In the Battle of Five Armies I was all over the place.

But nevertheless, when the hobbit ran to meet his destiny, I followed him with the deepest regret. He was heading to the place where my presence soon will be required. 

I’m sorry, Bilbo. Soon the piece of your heart will be dead. 

Dead will be the memory of Fili’s wheat-blond braids bouncing up and down. The memory of the devilry in the eyes of the younger prince as he laughed slyly. The memory of a soft, regretful voice saying “I've never been so wrong in all my life”.

I took my time before visiting Ravenhill. I was picking up the fallen under my feet, embracing those who had found peace and looking with stern face at those who screamed it wasn’t their time. 

That’s why I’ve arrived there at the right moment. 

I always arrive at the right moment. 

Amidst the dead-white ruins there were three living creatures turned into stone. Cracked faces. I looked at them from above. So did the orcs. So did Azog. 

So did Fili.

*** * * SOME INFORMATION ABOUT FILI * * ***

The dwarven prince. The heir to the throne and Thorin’s nephew.

Always carries a number of cold steel. 

Glimpses of greatness are seen in the blue of his eyes.

Somehow Fili would always slip past me unnoticed. Among thirteen dwarves he was probably the most reasonable, responsible, reliable. A lot of R’s. Today he tried the next letter.

*** * * S – self-sacrifice * * ***

It’s a shame that Fili didn’t know about the futility of the generous brotherly gesture, didn’t know that the younger one hadn’t much longer to live either, and yet I admired him.

He didn’t deserve such a fleeting life, and I, in my turn, was careful. I ran my fingers over his shoulders as the sharp-toothed blade bit into his back. His body vibrated with pain and tears, the heart oozing with terror. 

I realized I have never seen him that close before. Beads in his moustache were swinging like pendulums, kneading seconds into a thick, tarry mass. The summer sky was shining in his big eyes. Although it was clouded by the approaching of the night. 

Bear with me, Fili. It won’t be long.

He didn’t ask me to stop, didn’t beg for mercy. What a rarity for Death. 

The sky was a mix of dirty whitewash, and bulging at the seams. The limp body tumbled down, but I caught him midflight. Gently, like a baby, I tried to calm and comfort this furious clod of fear and dismay. 

He was still the heir. He didn’t want to show weakness.

The words were rustling on his lips. 

“Kili?”

There was a heavy pause. I nodded.

“Thorin?”

“Probably.”

There was no comfort. The soul arched frantically, tense and quivering, the eyes following his running brother, watching a stiffened shape that was his body once.

And I decided to make an exception. 

It seemed that Fili understood, falling silent. And I knew that it was necessary to him. Reassurance. 

So we waited.

*** * * FIVE LAST SECONDS OF KILI’S LIFE * * ***

Everything stopped. The battle, having spilled over the valley, was put on the back burner. After all, I always have plenty of time. I’ll manage to visit every single one. But right now I’m far more interested in the unexpected viewer of my incessant work.

And he’s more interested in his brother. 

Boiling blood is rushing through the veins of the younger prince, washing over his organs, clouding his judgement in order to give the final battle. He is a good warrior, this fellow, but too blinded by revenge and rage. The only outcome – it won’t be long. 

Two graceful silhouettes – the dwarf and the she-elf. Two against one, matted hair repeating sways of swords. Only a numerical advantage is really their weakness. 

I squint at my suddenly humble guest. His palm is hiding his frustrated face.

“Come on, you can do better,” Fili shakes his head in disapproval. “Seriously, brother, what a disappointment.”

Behind the criticism of the words hides the tenderness, and the smile quirks my lips. 

We’re coming closer. The bottom of my cloak brushes the she-elf; she is crushed by sufferings. Kili can’t turn his eyes off of her. 

But the deeper a blade is buried inside, the brighter he sees someone else. _Me._

I caught his pierced body blackened by shock.

“So, this is the end?” young dwarf’s soul asked consuming the last juices of life.

I silently pointed back, somewhere behind the red-headed. 

There was a sharp, cracking gasp of air.

She thought Kili was looking at her. He was looking at his brother. The air around was almost glittering with electricity. A pearly tear rolled down Kili’s cheek. I glanced at the relieved face next to me – the wheat-blond braids twitched as Fili smiled. 

It was time.

Two souls – two brothers – slipped into my embrace. Together.

***

The sun, having emerged from behind a cloud for a minute, gilded a muddy blend of the blizzard. Between the ruins the wind howled - a miserable ghost. There were two of them on the powdered stones.

The dwarf was dying. The last of Durins.

Some say, he did everything for his people. Some say, he brought upon them only ruin and death.

Thorin Oakenshield. Did you know you were the only one that had left? 

A tear-stomped hobbit leant beside him. Thorin’s last words ran cold, rattling in his ears. He has escaped me so many times, but his friends couldn’t. 

We were covered with shadows of the eagles and sounds of weeping. I kneeled before the cooling block of a body and offered a hand. The dwarf drew forward. His rough hand radiated calmness and power. He was cured of a disease called life and wasn’t scared anymore.

“Come with me,” I said. “They asked you to hurry up.”

Having looked for the last time at the face crossed with wet trails of tears, Thorin stepped forward. All that’s left was ghostly, opalescent voice. 

“Farewell, master burglar.”

I stay for a minute or two, contemplating my hobbit, wishing to remember. His dusty face was withered, his palm covering his mouth, suppressing silent sniffs. He wants to breathe but scarcely can, shaken by sobs. I feel awkward.

When years later I will get my hands on his book, there will be no sentiments. Just a cluster of facts. Just a story. If you weren’t there on _that_ day, you will never know about his eyes wide open when Fili was dangling over the edge. You will never know how his heart has skipped a beat when he’d heard a gurgling cough of a dying dwarf. And when Bilbo’s realized – Thorin had passed away.

I don’t like to be a witness to someone’s griefs. So I go away repeating the last words of The King under the Mountain.

*** * * A LAST FACT * * ***

Today I’m very busy with chores. But I found a minute to go beyond the borders of Middle-Earth and visit a special client. Today I came for Bilbo Baggins. Told you the Ring wouldn’t help.

I look at his skin seasoned with wrinkles, his eiderdown-hair. His old fingers grope for the edge of the blanket. He smiles at the ceiling, he was waiting for me. 

Elastic eyelids flapped wearily, air sacs were emptied with a whistling sound, and I gently picked a soul, tiny but so brave. It wasn’t enough to push him further, I had a few words prepared.

“You’ve lived a long life, master Baggins. A much longer than you should’ve. But believe me – they were expecting you nevertheless. Yes, yes, the ones you had just thought about closing your eyes.” 

Bilbo sat up. His eyes have flashed – the color of disbelief. And then… the color of hope. His lips were rounded with question, and I simply nodded, smiling.

His soul brightened.

***

My heart is a ghost town. A shelf of stories told by those who’s gone forever. But I keep them carefully in my memory.

Reminders of the good. And the sad.


End file.
